Know You're Never Alone
by Nahaliel
Summary: Two-shot. Peter and Neal's plans to take it easy fall through. Literally. Angst, Neal whump.
1. Chapter 1

_**A very random two-shot this time. It may be so random, it doesn't even make sense. So feel free to let me know what you think. This was also an excuse for some shameless whumping. Happy reading.**_

* * *

"This place is _empty_," Peter huffs in exasperation, putting his hands on his hips and scowling. Neal is standing next to him, cautiously surveying the dusty hallway they stand in the center of.

"You should've sent Jones." Neal wrinkles his nose at the scarce, decaying furniture littering the room.

"I can take care of an anonymous tip, Neal. And Jones is my partner, not my errand boy."

"You could've just sent me," the younger man says quietly, suppressing a sly smile.

"_Neal_," Peter warns. "_You_ can go wait in the car if—"

"Wait," Neal holds up a hand, "Peter, what's that?"

The agent follows the direction of Neal's squinted eyes and catches sight of it behind a broken armoire. The corner of a painting. Peter's lips quirk slightly. Neal takes a step towards it and suddenly a loud creaking sound resonates from under them. Peter catches Neal's gaze, his eyes are wide and bright, questioning. They barely have the time to register what's happening.

The floor falls away beneath them.

* * *

The darkness swallows them in a chaos of flailing arms and a startled cry. Peter flings out his hands, in the space of the one second drop, groping for purchase to break their fall, stop the inevitable impact, but it's useless. His knuckles scrape against stone and splintered wood and they go down anyway, Peter gripping nothing but dust and a few broken shards of floorboards tightly in his fist.

They hit the floor with a dull thud. Peter fares better than Neal he realizes, though why turns his blood to ice. As gravity finally drags him to the ground, his fall is cushioned by something—_oh god_. There's a muffled crunch and a grunt. He rolls off Neal so fast he stumbles and sprawls across the floor. He coughs through the cloud of dust billowing around them and gazes up at the gaping hole in the floor above. A feeble stream of light shines down on their heads, leaving the corners of wherever they've landed lurking in darkness. Peter sits in a daze, watching dust particles float through the shafts of light.

A shivering gasp comes from his left—_Neal_. Peter scrambles over to where his partner still lays, hair and face coated in a thin layer of dust. Sweat trickles down his forehead, tracking dark lines through the grey powder. Peter carefully rubs his thumb over each of Neal's closed eyes to clear away the grime.

"Neal, are you okay?"

The younger man moans in response, brow furrowing.

"Open your eyes, buddy… That's it." Neal complies, a brilliant slit of blue appearing under his eyelids, and roaming confusedly.

"Can you sit up?"

"Mm—don' know…" he mumbles. Something in his chest is tight; his lungs won't expand all the way.

Peter's already pulling him up.

A scream is torn from his throat and Peter stills, blood rushing in his ears. The little color under the dust has drained from Neal's face, and he's panting—_wheezing_, through clenched teeth.

"Neal, what hurts?" Peter fights to keep his voice even and low, Neal's scream still echoing painfully in his ears.

"Chest—god… 'Hurts," he gasps, one arm wrapped around his ribcage. Peter pries the arm away. Neal bites back a whimper and Peter clamps down hard on the ugly, consuming feeling of guilt constricting his chest. He carefully loosens Neal's tie, unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers. The buttons are little, and one or two pop, springing away into the dark corners with a _ping_.

The left side of Neal's chest is marred with ugly, purple bruising and a gruesome, unnatural indent under his heart.

* * *

"I'm sorry…"

"What?" Neal mumbles. "Why -sorry?"

"I hurt you. I landed on top of you. Shit," Peter curses their situation, loudly. The ugly words bounce back and forth in the dark confines of their prison.

"No, s'fine, P'ter…" Neal wheezes. He draws in a choking breath.

"Neal, you need to sit up, it'll help you breathe," the older man urges and Neal bites back another moan. He nods slowly to Peter.

The journey upright is an agonizing one. For both of them. Peter tries desperately to ignore the sharp hitches Neal's breathing and the poorly suppressed whimpers. He wants to stop, to leave Neal be, not cause him anymore pain—but, Neal's already upright against what Peter assumes is a wall, chin to his chest, brown hair obscuring his pale face.

"Neal." Peter lifts the younger man's chin up with two fingers. Neal's eyes are closed and his head rolls limply. Peter curses again, because eventually it might help them, right? He presses his ear to Neal's chest, and once he's satisfied the wheezing has considerably diminished he stands, and sets off to explore the rest of the space they've dropped into.

He stands in the pool of light shining down from the hole above their heads and cranes his neck to see back into the upper room. Goddamn anonymous tip. The house had been empty. Rickety, dangerous and empty. Wait. Not completely empty. Neal had spotted something; the painting.

Peter pulls his phone out of his pocket and _thank god_, there's a signal.

"Barrigan."

"Diana."

"Hey boss, what can I do for you?"

"We're in a bit of a tight spot with Neal… The floor collapsed underneath us—He's hurt."

There's a muffled intake of breath. "Where are you guys?"

Peter fights with his reeling brain to come up with the address. _Fuck. _He shakes his head vigorously. And _ow_. He brings a hand to his forehead and his fingers come away sticky and and coated in crimson.

"Boss?"

"Check Neal's anklet."

"On it." Peter hears the clacking of keys, and Diana shouting to Jones to find the recording of the anonymous tip and to get her an address.

Then there's a long pause. And Peter knows it's not good.

"Caffrey's anklet is offline."

Peter hurries back over to Neal, who is still slumped over, unconscious. He rolls the younger man's left pant leg up and sure enough; the anklet is flashing red.

"Have Jones get that address ASAP. Neal's unconscious."

"Okay, boss. I'll call you as soon as I have something."

Neal stirs slightly and groans just as Peter hangs up and slips the phone back into his pocket. He kneels down next to his friend and places a hand on the younger man's shoulder. He fights to keep his voice level despite the panic uncoiling in his lungs.

"Neal? You back with me?"

He is, eyes locking with Peter's. They widen, and his face twists into a pained grimace Peter can't decipher. Then- _oh._ He's going to be sick.

"P'ter… I don't feel so good—," the words sound odd and run together at the end. Then he is sick, all over his outstretched hands, and they both stare in shock at the dark, red blood streaming through his fingers and staining his thighs.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_**The second and final installment is now up. Thanks to all of those who reviewed, favorited and followed. Another fair amount of whump in this chapter. I have no medical knowledge whatsoever, I only did some internet research about it. Neal's symptoms would be those of a broken rib and a punctured lung, if my findings are acurate. Feel free to correct or give your thoughts. Also, there's a "her" mentioned in this chapter. If you want to see her as Kate, feel free. If you prefer Ellen, this will be pretty much AU as far as Peter's and Neal's relationship in light of 4x09's events. Anyway, enough babbling. Happy reading.**_

* * *

Peter's mind is reeling as he tries to wipe the blood on Neal's hands away with his own suit jacket. The younger man has his eyes screwed shut, his face is ashen and for a second, Peter thinks he'll go insane with panic; the sound of Neal's breathing is agonizing just to hear.

He puts two fingers under Neal's chin and lifts it up.

"Neal, open your eyes and look at me," He doesn't care that the blood coating Neal's lips and chin is now smeared over his fingertips; he needs his CI—his friend, to be okay again. Right now. Neal keeps his eyes shut and whimpers softly.

"Please, Neal? Open your eyes?" Whether it's the tone of his voice, or Neal finally needing the visual reassurance that he is not alone, Peter doesn't know, but the younger man's eyes open slowly and lock with his.

"You need to breathe, okay?" Peter coaxes. Neal tries. He coughs and it _hurts,_ threatening to pull him under again, but Peter has a firm, grounding grip on his shoulder to bring him back.

"There you go. Just keep breathing. You're okay. See?" Peter lets out a breath and sinks back on his heels. They sit in silence, Neal's chin to his chest, his raspy inhales echoing through the dark.

"Is… anyone coming?" He asks after a while. His voice is so quiet. For a fleeting moment, Peter wants to laugh and cry at the same time because, really, the situation they've got themselves into is absurd and so _frustrating_. The sheer helplessness of it curls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. His head pounds.

"Yes. Diana and Jones are working on it. Everything will be okay, you hear me? Neal?" Peter is rewarded with a shaky nod.

"Ugh," a small moan escapes Neal's lips and he coughs painfully. Blood coats his lower lip and chin again. He doubles over as a cry torn from his lips.

"Whoa, Neal, easy. Breathe," Neal doesn't listen, or can't.

"Shhh… You need to breathe," Peter says, voice tinged with desperation. His head spins. He kneels down in front of his partner, his own hands and knees stained with splatters of Neal's blood. The younger man's face is _white_ when the coughing fit subsides, face and neck bathed in a sheen of cold sweat. Sometime during Neal's ordeal, Peter's hand has traveled between his friend's shoulder blades, and he continues rubbing in gentle circles. Neither of them speaks.

Neal's vision fades in and out of focus as he stares at his shaking hands, stained with a fresh, glistening layer of red. There's so much blood.

He finally breaks the silence, his voice a broken and breathy whisper.

"Peter? Am I dying?"

* * *

Peter is painfully jerked into awareness. Did he pass out? His head is killing him, a steady ache building up in his brain and blurring his vision. Not that he can see much anyway, down in this—this cave. Oh. The memory of everything slams into him and leaves him reeling. As if their situation wasn't critical enough already; he's sure he's sporting something along the lines of a concussion. He feels movement against his shoulder, all jittery and weak. _Neal. _

Neal is leaning against his side, chin to his chest, arms wrapped around his torso. Shivers wrack his entire form. No, he's not just shivering; he's trembling, rather violently. Something about shock gets through the fog in Peter's brain and sets off painfully loud alarm bells.

"Neal," Peter tries to rouse the younger man, but it's useless. His face has taken on a ghostly pallor. He gently grabs Neal by the shoulders and guides his head to lay in his lap. Peter covers him with his own suit jacket, which is now stained with blood. It makes him sick. He needs to do something-his brain won't cooperate, can't keep up. _Neal can't go into shock_.

"Neal. Wake up, buddy," Peter tries. His voice sounds odd, is he slurring? "Don't you go into shock on me, Neal…"

"P'ter," Neal mumbles, eyes still closed and the agent peers down at his friend's pale features.

"You just hang in there, okay?"

"C-cold…" Neal whispers through chattering teeth and Peter pulls his jacket up to the younger man's chin. He lifts his head to the receding light filtering in through the hole above them and vaguely realizes he's lost track of time, of how long they've been trapped in this prison.

Neal's breathing becomes increasingly raspy and labored as the minutes tick by. Peter lets him shift feebly, trying to get comfortable. He coughs sporadically, smearing blood down the front of his shirt and Peter already stained jacket. Neal, his CI, his partner, his _brother_ is fading in his arms. The overwhelming feeling of helplessness that hits brings tears of frustration to Peter's eyes. And suddenly, he feels _so_ alone.

It takes him a moment to realize but Neal is talking, or mumbling, but at least he's saying something and Peter battles against the blood roaring his ears to hear him. His voice is so quiet and weak. Resigned.

"Maybe... I can be... with her again..." Peter doesn't understand what he means at first. Then—no_. No._ Peter's heart threatens to choke him.

"No. Neal, you're going to be fine." Neal gives a shivering gasp and coughs, blood speckling his white lips.

"'M s'rry, P'ter..."

"Don't you apologize, Neal. Neal."

Neal is dead weight against him and Peter wants to scream. This can't be happening. _This can't be happening_. The world tilts and gray invades the edges of his vision just as a voice calls to them from above.

* * *

He's relaxed. And warm. He vaguely remembers feeling cold and is grateful for the comfortable change in temperature. He gets a total of two minutes of oblivious bliss before feeling crashes into him.

Pain.

His chest is on fire, its flames curling around his rib cage and snaking into his lungs. A moan cuts through his clenched teeth as his whole body tenses. A voice pierces his haze of pain, calling to him, steadying him. The wave of agony pulls back out slightly and he takes in a slow, careful breath, shivering in relief as cool air pools into his lungs.

"Breathe, Neal. Breathe." He recognizes that voice. Opening his eyes he's greeted by the familiar, albeit blurry figure attached to the voice.

Peter looks exhausted. Exhausted but relieved. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt, jeans and-socks?

"P'ter?" Neal croaks, and tries to sit up. White, hot pain knifes through his lungs. He grunts. _Ouch._

"Take it easy," Peter lowers him back against the pillow with a strong and steady hand.

"What-?" He's confused for a moment. He has no memory of these barren, white surroundings. Peter looks pained and Neal gets a vivid flash of blood, dust and splintered floorboards. He remembers the fall, the pain, the red staining _everything..._ But things get hazy after that. The look on Peter's face tells him his memories are painfully clearer than his own.

"The painting?" Neal tries. Peter shakes his head in disbelief.

"You almost died and you want to know about the painting?"

"It's a Degas, Peter. The real thing, too," He replies and Peter rolls his eyes, finding his smile again. Neal is okay.

"We got it," Peter gives away and smirks at the way Neal's eyes light up.

Sitting by an injured Neal's hospital bed was not his definition of taking it easy. They made it out of another tight spot, a little worse for wear, but doing okay for the most part. Peter sighed. His life had become decidedly more interesting since Neal came into the picture, that was for certain.

"Peter?" The tone of Neal's voice makes him look up. "Where are your shoes?"

* * *

The End


End file.
